Winter Roses

By Anita Mills

A shocking scandal. An undeniable passion. A medieval Scottish romance from “an amazingly talented author who has few rivals” (RT Book Reviews).
 
Arabella of Byrum’s stunning beauty is a blessing and a curse. It drew the brutal Elias of Woolford to make an irresistible offer for her hand in marriage, and it fueled the jealous rage that made Elias break that bond—leaving Arabella with an infant Elias refuses to acknowledge as his, and a shattered reputation.
 
Despite the slanderous rumors about Arabella, William of Dunashie wants her when no other lord will. In his arms, Arabella discovers what the true power of love is, and can only hope that power will keep her safe as she searches a shadowy labyrinth of evil intrigue for the way to clear her name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626810372

Book preview

Prologue

The Scottish Border Country: September 28, 1127

The rumbling sound of carts and the muted jangle of mailed riders broke the peace of the starless night as they crossed the Cheviot Hills. Behind them a dozen archers walked, their tools of trade on their backs. Above, the moon was nearly hidden behind a bank of clouds, affording cover on this, the eve of Michaelmas. It was, William of Dunashie reflected grimly, as good a night for their purpose as he’d ever seen. It was the night they’d regain his half-brother’s stolen patrimony.

Ahead, the keep of Dunashie rose from the crest of the mound, an aged stronghold built on the rubble of an ancient Celtic fortress. Within its timbered walls there stood but one thatched-roof stone tower, and without there was but a single narrow ditch of stagnant water to reflect the hazy moon. For all that he’d wanted the place, ’twould seem that Hamon of Blackleith had done little to it. It appeared much as it had been when William had left it more than sixteen years before.

The tall, black-haired boy beside him reined in and stood in his stirrups to contemplate the task before them. William followed his gaze, thinking ’twas almost too easy: And they did it right, the fool who ruled within would yield to them this night what the courts had refused. Looking back to the boy, William felt a surge of pride. Though he’d celebrated his sixteenth birth anniversary but the day before, Giles of Moray already showed the purpose of a man. Aye, the exile, the attempted assassinations, and finally the futile court case, had tempered the youth, hardening him until he was a warrior worth following.

What think you, Will? the boy asked. Is it as you would remember?

William looked again at the timbered walls. Aye.

For a moment Giles’ face was sober, then he half-turned in his saddle to smile at Will. But for you, brother, I’d not have lived to see it.

Nay, I did but what Iain of Dunashie asked of me.

You undervalue yourself—you were but five years the elder yet you kept me safe, even in King Henry’s court, Giles reminded him.

Embarrassed, William looked away, spitting at the ground. ’Twas my lot to serve ye, he protested. The old laird said, ‘I canna leave ye anything, ye know, fer yer dam was but a village lass I took to my bed, but I’d hae ye look ter the babe as has the right.’ ’Twas the last he spoke ter me ere they hanged him, he recalled bitterly. E’en as young as I was, I couldna fergit his words.

E’en so, there’s not many bastards as faithful to the legitimate heir. I owe you for what you have done for me, Will, the boy said solemnly.

Nay, but ye were worthy of the service. William leaned over and spat again to cover the rise of emotion he felt. And now ’tis ye as brings us home.

What think you—is aught different that you can tell?

The bigger man studied the wall. Well, there’s naught ter say Hamon of Blackleith’s nae changed the place a bit, but I canna see it.

Hamon of Blackleith. The name hung between them, for when the powerful family of Moray had executed Iain of Dunashie for forcibly wedding the Lady Judith, they’d given the unwanted product of the union for hostage to King Henry of England, leaving it to King Alexander of Scotland to bestow Dunashie on a liege man. And later it had been the courts of Alexander’s successor, King David, that had upheld Hamon against a powerless boy.

Hamon spit in my face, Will, and I’ll see him dead for it.

Aye.

The fools sleep, Giles noted with grim satisfaction. They know not we are come.

William looked again to his half-brother with an equal grimness. And may Hamon of Blackleith die knowin’ ’twas ye as took it back.

Between them, they’d gathered a motley band of malcontents from both sides of the border for the attempt. And now those who rode with them hoped to gain service with the next lord of Dunashie. At the rear of the column, some of them stood ready to fire the pitch vats for the assault. It was, William knew, going to be a brutal, bloody thing they did, but he told himself there was no other way. As long as Hamon breathed, he’d not yield Dunashie.

A wiry, toothless fellow, Robert of Langhorne, worked his flint, but Giles shook his head. Nay, I’d have all in readiness first, Hob. I’d not give them time to raise a defense once we are seen. We are not enough to stand and fight. Nudging his horse to ride back amongst his men, he kept his voice low. Lang Gib, he addressed the tall, lanky Gilbert of Kilburnie, I’d have you cover the archers whilst they take to the trees above. ’Twill be Wat’s task to supply the pitch-wrapped arrows. And Willie and Ewan will ride beneath, holding their brands high to light them.

William knew why he’d been chosen: At six feet and seven English inches he was taller than the others, taller even than Lang Gib by a full head. Wee Willie he’d been called derisively at the English court, and the name had stuck. But this night at least he would not curse his size.

He watched almost dispassionately as the men dipped the wrapped ends of torches and arrows into the thick pitch. The archers moved to the trees that spread their limbs almost to the malodorous moat, then climbed high to position themselves within firing distance of the wooden walls. When all was ready, the toothless one gave the raven’s call. Inside, all was quiet.

The mounted columns separated to ring the wall. Will took the torch he was handed, and for the first time since he’d proposed the plan his body felt taut. This was no meaningless skirmish for another master—this was the battle for the keep of his birth. This was the fulfillment of his promise to his sire. This night Giles of Moray would hold Dunashie, or they would die.

Above them a lone sentry walked the wall, his horn lantern flickering like a small, distant star. The poor fool didn’t know it was a target he carried.

Finally Giles nodded, lifting his hand to signal it was time. William rode back to where the hot coals were held within the vented iron kettle. Tipping the lid over, he thrust his brand within, holding it until the flame flared and the pitch caught the fire. The sentry above turned just as an archer’s arrow caught him, and he fell, his last cry muted by the splash when he hit the water.

William spurred his horse and, holding his flaming torch high above his head, he rode beneath the trees. The archers leaned their brands down to catch the fire. Ahead of him, he could see Giles flinging his own torch over the wall to the thatch that covered the stable. Others followed him, and soon the curling smoke attested to a dozen or more fires within. The taunts of the circling, shouting borderers mingled with the cacophony of animals afraid of the flames on the other side.

The thatch was like tinder, and within minutes every roof from the granary to the tower was ablaze. The courtyard, which had been so silent before, was filled with the shouts and the choking coughs of those who scrambled from their pallets. And above the din women screamed, crying for God’s deliverance from the smoke and the fire. Will closed his ears to the pitiful cries, for there was none to aid them now.

In one final, desperate attempt to escape the burning keep, those within ran for the gate, pushing against it even as the heavy chains creaked and rattled to lift it. Several men worked frantically to turn the pulleys, lowering the bridge. Behind them the courtyard was orange with the unchecked fires, and the light silhouetted hastily mounted knights, their mail hanging unhooked from their shoulders. At their head, the fat baron cursed the gate men for their slowness.

’Tis Hamon! Giles yelled.

Will rode for the drawbridge as it made its slow descent down, shouting, Move the pitch cart to block their escape!

Above the frightful din Giles called to Hob, Burn it! Now!

The cart rolled forward, and just as the wooden bridge struck the pilings Hob pushed the vat over, spilling the pitch onto the wood. Will leaned over to fire it, and those who rode out faced a wall of shooting flames. Panicked horses reared, and men blasphemed as they were thrown into the burning pitch. Living torches, they struggled to rise, then curled over as they were consumed.

Watch out! Will shouted hoarsely, as the huge-girthed man he’d recognized for Hamon rode through the fire. Giles! ’Tis he!

But his younger brother spurred forward, taunting the usurper, shouting through the smoking hell, Behold, the boy you dispossessed is become a man! Use your spit to put out the fire!

Nay, ye’ll not live to take it—ye’ve built yer funeral pyre! the baron snarled. Ye’ll die fer this!

William knew fear as Hamon’s sword flashed, its blade catching the glow of the disintegrating bridge. He threw his torch away and reached for his axe. I’d take him fer ye! he cried.

Nay! He is mine!

William saw Hamon’s horse leap, gaining the hard-packed earth, while the baron leaned from his saddle to swing his sword so wide that he nearly lost his seat. The blow glanced from Giles’ shield. William forced his attention to the others, telling himself he’d taught the boy to take care of himself.

More crowded behind Hamon, trying to escape before the bridge fell into the water. William shouted to Lang Gib, We canna let any of Blackleith escape! For Moray of Dunashie! For Dunashie! Even as he called out the battle cry he rode at them, swinging his axe furiously. The broad blade caught the first man out after Hamon, lifting him in his saddle and cleaving him cleanly upward from the ribs. His curse died in a look of surprise, then he toppled. His frightened horse dragged him away.

After that it was a mad melee: Many who would try the gate fell back from the flaming bridge, but some managed to force their neighing mounts across. Above, those trapped inside screamed piteously and tried to jump from the burning walls. There was no other time, no future, no past, as Will and Gib and the others hacked at those who dared the bridge. He’d let none aid Hamon. The din of battle was deafening, and then it was over, followed by a sudden, eerie silence broken only by the popping and cracking of the settling timbers.

When there was no more coming out, William turned to find his brother. Giles stood over the fallen baron as Will came up behind him.

I’d be shriven, Hamon gasped. I’d have God’s mercy. In the name of the Virgin, I’d have a priest.

While William watched, Giles struck the final blow: Hamon’s legs lifted, jerked, then his body went limp and his head lolled. Nay, Hamon, but ’tis all the mercy you will have of me, the boy said softly. I’d see your soul in Hell ere I called a priest for you.

They’d done it—they’d won. William’s throat ached and tears streamed down his face as Giles turned to him. Wordlessly the boy clasped him, holding his mailed arms with bloody hands.

I’ve brought you home, Will—Dunashie is ours.

I never doubted you would—never. Still overwhelmed with what he felt, Will stepped back and smiled crookedly. ’Tis yers, my lord.

Aye. They both turned to survey the flames that licked the night sky. And there’ll be none to want it now—’tis but ashes.

’Tis a lesson fer ye—when ye build it again, make it stone, William murmured.

The borderers moved among the fallen, stripping anything of value they found, as William and Giles surveyed the destruction and death they’d wrought. It had been a bitter struggle, but it was over. Even if he willed it, King David could not give Dunashie back to Hamon.

My lord, these are all as survive.

As he spoke, Lang Gib prodded several sullen people forward. Grimed with soot, their clothes wet from the foul water in the ditch, they looked down rather than at Giles of Moray. The boy approached a girl, scarce twelve.

Art of Hamon’s family?

She shook her head, then her face crumpled. Covering her face as though she could blot out what she’d seen, she wept loudly. Behind her a man cried, They are all dead—Lady Margaret even! Sweet Jesu, but you have burned us in our beds! May God consign your souls to Hell for it!

But Giles was watching the girl, and he felt the need to justify what he’d done. Demoiselle, he took what was mine. Abruptly, he swung around. How many were inside?

Thirty-six that called Hamon lord, the man muttered, and we are all that live.

And the others? Giles wanted to know. How many as were born here?

He shrugged. No more’n an English dozen.

Any of his blood among you?

The man’s arm tightened on the half-naked boy beside him. Nay, they all perished. You have murdered all. All, he repeated. E’en the women and the bairns is dead.

William counted but six survivors. Turning away, he studied the still burning wall. The awful smell of cooked flesh assaulted his nose, sickening him, and guilt washed over him. Then he shook it off. The guilt is Hamon’s, he said aloud, and may God curse him for it, fer ’twas him as stole Dunashie from ye.

Aye, Giles agreed grimly.

It was decided to send the young girl, Aveline de Guelle, back to her father. The others Giles intended to let go, allowing them to seek refuge where they would. But as he and Will walked away, the one who had dared to raise his voice a moment ago spat at them.

Butcher! Art naught but a butcher! May ye burn in Hell for this! The other men and the boy joined in, chanting, Butcher! Butcher! Art but a craven butcher, as burns women and babes in their beds!

Giles stopped still, his jaws working to control the surge of anger he felt. And then he shook his head. Will, he said evenly, hang them. With that he walked on, leaving his brother to carry out the order.

It was an unpleasant task. Battle was one thing—a man testing his skill against another—but hanging was something Will did not relish. He looked to Lang Gib. You heard him, did ye not?

Aye, Gib acknowledged grimly.

Will started to walk away also, then turned to look at the frightened youth. How are ye called, boy?

My lord, I would ye spared him, the man who’d first angered Giles pleaded. He has but ten years!

Who is he?

The man hesitated, then cast a warning look at the child. He is mine nephew.

Ye dinna answer me, boy—how are ye called?

The youth swallowed visibly, then shook his head mutely.

He is Walter, my lord.

I dinna ask ye—and I am no more lord than ye, Will snapped. For a long moment he considered the boy, thinking he could not let Gib hang a child. And remembering how it had been when his own sire had been hanged before his eyes, he nodded. Aye. Come with me then, for ’tisna anything fer ye to watch.

The boy hung back, clinging to his uncle. The man looked up at William. I’d hae a farewell wi’ him.

Aye. Will’s eyes traveled to where Hob already looped a rope over a stout limb. I’ll walk apart a little that ye may speak, but I’d nae gie ye o’erlong.

The man waited until Will had turned his back, then he held the boy’s arm, speaking low and urgently. ’Tis the last of yer blood ye are, and I’d nae hae ye fergit it—d’ye ken me?

Tears welled and spilled from young Walter’s eyes as he nodded. I’d die wi’ ye! he cried fervently.

Nay, ’tis ye as must remember—’tis ye as must make Giles of Moray pay for what he does this day, his uncle whispered. For yer sire’s memory, ye must live. Leaning down, he embraced the boy. Ye ken me? he asked again.

Aye.

It had been long enough. Will beckoned to the boy. Walter. When the child shook his head, he caught him beneath the arm and pulled him away. Here now … I told ye … tis no sight fer ye.

Where do you take me? the boy whimpered, his eyes now wide with his fear.

D’ye have any kinsmen beyond these walls?

Nay.

William peered down at the grimed face and felt pity for the lad. And Giles does not mind it, I’d take ye ter the brothers at Kelso, he offered gently. They’ll have a care fer ye.

I’d nae be a priest!

’Tis better than a hanging, William countered. Ye’ll have a roof above ye, and food fer yer stomach. His troubled eyes traveled up the burning timbers once more. God willing, ye’ll fergit this.

Never!

The boy spoke the word with such vehemence that it gave Will pause. Ye’d best. ’Tis a better life I’d gie ye than that of a villein, ye know, and if Giles—

I hate him! I hate the Butcher! Tears spilled over onto the grimy cheeks, streaking them. Hang me with them!

Nay. Will motioned to the one called Wat. Here, you keep the boy from harm, will ye? I’d ask Giles’ permission to take him to Kelso, he told him, starting away.

Bastard! Bloody bastard!

He stopped, but did not turn around. Aye. Call us ‘Butcher’ and ‘Bastard,’ if ye will, but Dunashie’s ours this day.

Much later, when the flames were no more than tongues tasting the charred remnants of what had been Dunashie, Will broached the matter of the boy, saying, I spared the boy, ye know.

Giles’ earlier anger had been overcome by his guilt. He nodded. Tell him he can stay here.

Will shook his head. Ye’ll nae want one as hates ye in yer service, ye know. And ye dinna mind it, I’d take him to the monks.

Aye. Giles’ black eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke. I’ve killed enough children this night.

Ye couldna know none would escape.

If I had, ’twould have made no difference. Dunashie is my birthright, Will. Nay, but I have offered prayers for the innocent and damned the rest.

Aye. Ye canna count the cost of justice. William’s mouth twisted crookedly, and his eyes were reddened from more than the fire. ’Tis proud of ye I am, and I’d hae ye know it.

That elicited a smile from the boy. You know, Will, ‘twill not always be Dunashie. I mean to rise before the world, and when I do I’ll not forget the service you have given me. One day, William of Dunashie, you will rule a keep of your own. One day I’ll see you a lord also.

Ye’d best rise yerself, ere ye promise to raise a bastard before the world. Then, realizing how he sounded, he cuffed his young brother on the shoulder. But if ye do, I’ll hold ye to it.

Ah, Will, but ’tis the first of all we shall have. Giles turned to throw his arm around him. I tell you what you told me at Henry’s court: ‘I’d nae have ye doubt yerself,’ you said to me. Do you remember it?

As I recall, ’twas said to keep ye from weeping in yer pallet.

Aye, we were but two boys then. Giles drew in a deep breath, then let it out. But this night we are become men.

Chapter One

Woolford, Cumberland: April 20, 1132

Aidan! You must flee, and quickly!

Wha—what? Still dazed from sleep, the young man sat up slowly from his straw pallet. The girl before him thrust his tunic into his hands. Baffled, he stared at it for a moment. Should not be up … ought to be abed, he mumbled thickly. Your babe … Elias …

There is not time to explain. Sweet Mary, but can you not hurry? As she leaned over him, the veil fell away from her bruised face.

God’s blood, lady! His eyes widened, and he came awake fully. Who … ? But even as he asked, he knew it had been Elias. Jesu, he muttered.

Get you dressed, she whispered, turning away.

"But why? What did ye to deserve this?"

She shook her head. " ’Tis the babe. He would kill you for it, and naught I can say … Dear God, there is not the time—you must go now, sir! And you would live, you must leave now!"

Ignoring the urgency in her words he stared still, unable to comprehend. Me? But I have done nothing, and—

’Tis enough that he believes you have sired my babe, she answered bitterly. ’Tis enough that you have smiled at me—that you have shown me kindness here.

A look of utter incredulity passed over his face. "He thinks what? By the rood of God, nay! As her words sank in, he hastened to pull open the neck of the garment, diving into it. Nay, but ’tis beyond belief! Who dares to carry such a tale?" His voice was muffled as he tugged the tunic down over his naked body. Moving quickly now, he pulled on his chausses and tied them at his waist. When he would have reached for his garters, she shook her head.

There is not the time, and you’d leave alive.

But I canna understand how ’tis he could think that I … that ye …

The babe is not whole, and Elias would have one to blame for it. She looked up, toward the sound of the shouting men above them. Go with God, Aidan. She picked up his sword and handed it to him.

But ’tis a lie! Even as he said it he girded his sword belt about his waist, then bent to pull on his boots. Nay, I’d face him, and tell him that whoever accuses me lies.

Think you he cares for that? Mine own innocence protected me not! She bit her bruised and blackened lip to still its trembling, then she dared to touch his muscled arm. Nay, but I’d not have your blood on my soul!

He cursed himself inwardly, for had not his lord’s own son warned him that Elias of Woolford was blindly jealous of his young wife? But he’d done nothing beyond show her kindness…. Nay, ’twas not true, and he knew it. He’d dared to admire her openly—he’d dared to speak with her when others would not. For the briefest moment, he’d even allowed himself to touch the softness of her hair. If there had been any sin ‘twas his, for he’d dared to dream of the old man’s wife. Now, he looked on her battered face and felt an intense anger toward Elias of Woolford.

Nay, but I’d nae leave ye to face him alone, lady. I’d tell him you are blameless.

He’d kill you ere you spoke a word, she cut in flatly, and ’twould serve nothing.

And now even as he tarried, the grizzled Elias emerged from the stairway above, calling out, There is the whore’s son! Afore God, I’ll hear from his own lips that he has lain with my wife! We have caught them together!

Still Aidan hesitated until she pushed him, hissing, Now! Save yourself whilst you can! They’ll hang you and you do not go! Hating himself for it, he made the decision to run, heaving his body out the narrow arrow slit and dropping to the ground below, then breaking into a run for the stable.

To gain him time, Arabella moved to face her drunken husband. Clenching her hands for courage, she dared to beg for the borderer’s life. Nay, my lord, but I swear by the Blessed Virgin that we are blameless! Put me aside if ’tis your will, but I pray you will not kill one who is innocent!

Elias of Woolford reeled unsteadily. Innocent! he snorted derisively. "Innocent! Mine eyes have seen his innocence! God marks your babe for your sin!

Behind him his sons glowered at her, and Donald muttered, Ye can tend to her later. ’Tis Ayrie as escapes.

She dropped to her knees before Elias and held out her hands. I am willing to swear on the True Cross that I have been naught but a good and faithful wife to you, my lord.

’Tis not my babe you have borne me, Arabella of Byrum, Elias growled. ’Tis the devil’s changeling you would have me claim, and I’ll not do it! Woolford wears the horns for no man! He reached to shove her aside, cursing as Aidan rode from the stable. After the whoremaker! he shouted furiously. One hundred pennies to the man who takes him!

In desperation Arabella caught at his sleeve, hanging on. Nay! Sweet Mary, but are you so blind that you cannot see the truth? Is there no proof I can offer? she cried.

He shook free of her, casting her roughly against the stone wall. When I am done with Aidan of Ayrie, wife, I will punish you also, he promised. There’ll be none other to want you when I am done—I swear it!

Screaming and cursing, he followed his sons down the winding stairs, leaving her to watch helplessly at the slit. But as Elias reached the courtyard, Aidan leaned to strike furiously at the frayed ropes that held the drawbridge, cutting them with his sword blade. And before the wooden platform banged against the pilings on the other side of the flooded ditch he had spurred his horse onto it, forcing the beast to jump to the slippery bank. For an awful moment the animal seemed to lose its footing, but then it struggled up and pawed its way onto solid ground. Before the others could gain their mounts, Aidan of Ayrie had disappeared into the foggy rain.

Forgotten in the din of men scrambling for mounts, Arabella clung to the cold stone for support. God aid you, Aidan, for a smile was your only folly, she whispered. If there was any sin ’twas mine, for I wished for your kindness, and more. And as she spoke the cold rain mingled with her tears, streaking her battered face. She did not move until her tiring woman came after her.

Och, and ye ought ter be abed, my lady, Ena chided. ’Twas a hard birthing and a hard beating,

What difference does it make? Arabella asked dully. The babe is not whole, and he means to kill me for it.

As the rain continued to beat steadily against the shuttered arrow slits that served for windows, Arabella smoothed the soft, downy hair on the small head that lay at her breast. Looking down on the wee, sleeping face, she felt a surge of tenderness for this babe, for her less-than-perfect son. But she was alone in that, for she’d not missed the furtive glances, nor had she missed the number of servants who’d made the sign of the Cross when they thought she would not know it. Even the stout village girl who’d been brought in to wet-nurse the babe had recoiled when she’d seen him, and Arabella had sent her back, saying she would give suck herself. And Ena, for all that she had served her, would not hold him until he’d been wrapped and his deformity hidden from sight.

The Devil’s mark, indeed. If anything, her son’s twisted, useless leg had been caused by all the beatings Arabella had endured at her husband’s hands. She could not count the times she’d wanted to send to her father and her brothers for aid, but she’d known what Nigel of Byrum would tell her: that it was a woman’s lot to be obedient, and a man’s right to chasten her when she erred. But she’d not erred, and it had made no difference. Elias had chastened her for every glance, every kind word she had dared to bestow, until finally she was isolated from every man at Woolford. And still the beatings had not stopped.

But the matter of Aidan of Ayrie was more serious than any other, for her son’s birthright was now being questioned. Were it not for that, she’d have welcomed being set aside. But now there was no possibility of that, for Elias’ pride would suffer. Nay, but he’d beat her to death without reason, then pay a fine to her father for it. And she dared not think what he would do to her poor, innocent babe.

They were gone for many hours, for so long that night waned into dreary dawn and finally into yet another grey, rainy day, and all the while Arabella sat there, holding her son, praying that an innocent man would escape her husband’s unreasoning wrath. But she had little real hope of that, for the burns that lay between Woolford and Ayrie were flooded with two weeks and more of the ceaseless rain.

My lady.

She looked up to see Father Bertrand standing before her, his hands clasped over the crucifix he wore. His gaze dropped to the babe at her breast, and he cleared his throat.

I thought mayhap you would want to name him, he said quietly. I have brought water from the River Jordan.

She caressed the soft hair again, and nodded. I’d name him James, for my mother’s father. Lifting her eyes to his again, she added, I am innocent—’tis Woolford’s son I have borne.

Aye.

Ever have I tried to please the husband I have been given, she continued bitterly, but I cannot.

Aye. He opened the small vial he’d concealed in his palm and held it out for her to see. ’Tis sacred—I had it of a man who traveled to the Holy Land. Even as he spoke, he leaned over her to drip several drops of the precious water onto the babe’s forehead, letting it course downward. At first the slate-colored eyes blinked, then the tiny face screwed into an expression of outrage and the babe wailed indignantly. Wetting his thumb in the water, the priest made the sign of the Cross over the small head.

I baptise thee, James of Woolford, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, that you may serve Him in this world and the next. Amen.

And may He cause His countenance to shine upon you with His mercy, wee Jamie, Arabella murmured softly, as she leaned to kiss the wet face.

As the old priest looked down on her bent head, he felt a great sadness for her. It was not right that Nigel of Byrum had given her at fifteen to a man of fifty-four, and so Bertrand would tell him if ever he saw the lord of Byrum again. Aye, as Elias’ fleshly abilities had begun to wane his jealousy had soared until it knew no bounds, and he had beaten her far too often for her imagined transgressions. And now, having convinced himself that he had not sired this lame child, he would probably kill her—after he tortured Aidan of Ayrie into confessing to that which had not been done. And at best he would let the babe starve.

Not that he did not blame young Aidan for what had happened. The fool had been incautious in his admiration of his lord’s wife. And more than once, despite a dozen warnings, he’d dared to lavish praise on the girl in the presence of Elias’ sons. Indeed, had his father not been Duncan of Ayrie, Aidan would have been sent away long ago. Now Elias was too blinded by unreasoning fury to spare him.

At first Bertrand thought ’twas the sound of harder rain he heard, but then he saw Arabella stiffen. Mayhap if he were to see you in chapel on your knees … he offered helplessly. Mayhap …

He would take it as proof of my guilt, she said tonelessly. Rising, she held her son close for a moment, then laid him within the cradle Elias had commissioned before the babe had been born. He’d say I prayed that Aidan of Ayrie might escape. And that at least would be the truth.

Bertrand fingered the Cross at his breast nervously. Would you that I stayed with you?

That he could accuse you of lying with me also? Nay, I—

There were trampling footsteps on the stairs, then the door burst inward to admit Milo of Woolford, Elias’ youngest son from the earlier marriage. Father, he addressed Bertrand breathlessly, I pray you will come! Donald would have you shrive Papa, though he is dead.

"Dead? Arabella asked faintly, sinking into her chair. Elias is dead?"

Without looking at her, Milo nodded. Ayrie’s whelp swam the flooded river, but Papa’s horse reared, throwing him into the water.

Sweet Mary. And Aidan of Ayrie? she dared to ask also.

For now, he has escaped capture.

Relief washed over her with the realization that Elias of Woolford had come home for the last time, that no longer would he humiliate and beat her. He was dead. Aware that Milo finally had turned to her, she bowed her head to murmur, May God show Elias the mercy that he showed me.

Amen, he agreed, not understanding her meaning.

Pleading the exhaustion of childbed, Arabella did not witness Elias’ interment beneath the chapel floor at Woolford. It did not matter: His grown sons behaved as though she were not there now, anyway, as Donald assumed the lordship of the keep. It was not until nearly a week after the funeral mass that all three of Elias’ surviving sons climbed to the solar to see her.

Hugh, the middle one, walked to stand over young James’ cradle, peering intently at the blinking babe. I don’t know…. Mayhap … , he ventured finally.

It matters not, Donald snapped. Without preamble, he turned to Arabella to announce, We are here to decide how best to provide for you, madam.

For an awful moment she felt a cold sickness descend. Had there been no child she would have been sent back to her father, but now … now Donald could choose to send her to a convent. And he would be expected to keep Jamie.

His eyes swept the tapestries that blew against the walls of the solar. ’Tis time I slept here, he decided.

Aye. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, not knowing how best to appeal to him. There was too much of Elias in him to risk setting him against her. It is your right as lord here.

That pleased him. A faint smile crossed his mouth, then fled. And your sire does not require your dowry, you may return to him.

She ought to have known he would not want to send her to the nuns, for then he’d be expected to endow the convent that took her. But he’d not mentioned Jamie. And James of Woolford… ? And my son… ? she dared to ask.

The brothers exchanged brief glances, then Hugh looked away. Your bastard goes with you, Donald answered. I’ve no use for a lame brat.

He is not my bastard, she responded evenly. He shares the blood of Woolford with you. Whether you believe it or no, I have never lain with any but your father.

Aye, Hugh agreed, there’s none— He stopped, quailing beneath the look his older brother gave him.

I say he is Aidan of Ayrie’s bastard, Donald stated flatly. And you would take him with you, you’ll not dispute it.

He walked closer and lifted the blanket from the babe, staring downward on the tiny leg that turned so much the stubby foot lay over. His lip curled in disdain, and when he looked up Arabella could see Elias in his eyes. "I share no blood with this," he declared contemptuously.

Nay, you’ll not deny him. I will …

Donald’s eyes narrowed. Would you make me keep him for you? he demanded. And you do, the brat will come to hate you for it. And you do, he’ll not prosper here.

The threat was clear: If she made any claim on Woolford for her son, Donald would treat him cruelly. And if she did not, it was as much as admitting to the falsehood that her babe was Ayrie’s bastard. While she considered the impossible choice, he looked again to her babe. "Nay, but my sire never got that of you, he said contemptuously. This brat’s Devil-born. And ’tis witchcraft to consort with the Devil, madam," he added ominously. His eyes met hers and held, waiting.

Then try me for it! You cannot accuse both the Devil and Ayrie!

Hugh moved between them and laid a hand on her arm. And you leave with the babe, we’ll not accuse you.

I cannot deny my son’s birthright of Woolford.

Birthright? Donald snorted. "You behold three others before him, and I am possessed of two sons. And he were born of my sire, I’d not spare more than a hundred marks for him! ’Twould be the Church, and they’ll not take that!"

She turned to Hugh. And you: Will you not hold for my son? Will you not protect one of your blood? For answer, he looked away. And you also, Milo? she asked softly, seeking the youngest. Do you deny your father’s flesh?

There was only silence in the room. Finally, she sighed and nodded. Aye, I’d not leave him amongst you. All I ask is escort to Byrum for myself and my son.

After they’d left, she sat staring into the embers that glowed in the brazier. It was done—her awful, terrifying marriage to Elias of Woolford was done. She had survived the countless beatings, and she was free. Not even the knowledge that she returned home to a father who would not want her, who would be angered when he saw Jamie, could dampen the surge of exhilaration she felt. She was free. And God willing, she would never have to submit to the cruelty of a husband again.

Chapter Two

Byrum, Scotland: September 15, 1138

"But Papa—nay!"

’Tis settled between us, Bella—the lord of Dunashie brings his brother Tuesday next, and I’ll nae hear otherwise!

Arabella clasped her hands tightly before her and tried not to reveal the terror she felt at her father’s words. She would wed again, he told her, this time the half-brother of Giles of Moray. And every tale she’d ever heard of the Butcher and the Bastard came to mind, chilling her blood, for there was none who did not know that they’d burned Hamon of Blackleith and all his family in their beds, or that the Butcher had been tried for the murder of his wife. And it was said that the Bastard of Dunashie had aided his brother in the commission of those terrible acts.

Well? Nigel of Byrum regarded his daughter with thinly veiled dislike, then he sneered. Art not pleased, Bella? he challenged. " ’Tis as well as I could do fer ye, ye ken. ’Tis but yer good fortune they’ve

Reviews for Winter Roses

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A story that could have been true about true love and those that lived it